"Words"

Searching in the dogma
That surrounds me
No trust
Only that feeling of goodbye
Grasping tightly to hold on
But my mind
And my hands
Are covered with the grease
Of insecurity
I lose my grip and slip
Right through
And fall back into
The same old hole
Disillusioned by my
Expectations
Created in the dark corner
Of my youth
Deep in the phantoms
Of my memories
My release
My only way out
Is the fantasy world
Of writing
Poems and promises
Words...
My words set me free
Forever writing
Forever dreaming

"In the Garden Of My Mind"

In the garden of my mind.
I can grow so many things.
No matter what the season.
Winter, fall, summer, or spring.
Planting seeds of hope and love.
Prayers and promises to God above.
Weeding out the evil seeds.
With kindness, caring, and good deeds.
Never letting evil grow.
Trying to reap the things you sow.
But sometimes it's hard to grow things right.
When your mind is trapped in a long dark night.
And your looking for sunshine and the watering rain.
But you're just stuck in a drought of pain.
You look for help and no ones there.
And your garden is dead and oh so bare.
Turn to God to he will bring the sun.
He will help you get your garden done.
You will reap your harvest and you will find.
Prayers are the seeds.
For the garden of your mind.


 

"How I Look At Life"

When you get to a point
Where you have given
All you have to give
When you have unselfishly
Shown as much
Kindness, Caring, and Love
That you have in your heart
You can honestly say
I tried my best
The satisfaction for all
You have done
Must come from you
Expecting anything else
From anyone would be selfish
If what you have offered
Seems to be pointless
Do it anyway
The reward will be heaven
God will not let these things
Go unnoticed
He sees the mistakes you have made
And so do you
But no one is perfect
That's why we pray for
Forgiveness
That's why as we get older
Faith becomes so important
You can't fix the mistakes
You have made along life's Journey
But you surely can
Be better then you once were
It's part of the lessons you must learn
So all in all
What you learn along the way
Changes who you are everyday
So be kind, Be caring, give
With all your heart
Show love
And don't expect any of what you
Have given in return
It's nice when it happens
But that alone doesn't make you a better person
But what you choose to give
And how you choose to care
Will always show
Exactly who you are
And exactly how
God sees you

"Writing For Me"

When I write I am free. When I write , I write for me. Satisfaction of a rhyming line. Knowing there me. Knowing there mine. Take me away to the dark side of the moon. Or a warm and breezy day in the middle of June. Sailing away on the ocean tide. Feeling warm and safe inside. No one there to bother me. Or tell me who I should be. I am a king ,a hero or a little boy. Anything that brings me joy. I can take a magic carpet ride. I can be seen or I can hide. I can climb a mountain or fish in a lake I can just be me and not be fake. And I really don't care if anyone sees. Because when I'm writing I'm writing for me

"The Friendship of the Rose and it's Thorns"

When looking at a rose
The flower is the beauty
The thorns look ugly and cause pain
But there is beauty in the thorns
They protect the rose
They sacrifice there self
And they don't care what people
May think of them
They let the beauty of the flower
Shine in all it's glory
Th fragile flower depends on the thorns
For protection
Because without them the flower may never bloom
Kind of like a faithful and undying friendship
I think this was Gods plan when he created the rose
I think he would want us to see
The whole beauty of the rose
And not just the flower
And I think he would want us to see
That beauty can be seen in everything
Just like the friendship of the rose and it's thorns
But we must take the time to see what he wants us to see

"Anna's Stone"

I took a walk one nice spring day.
I found a grave stone along my way.
The stone was old but I could see.
The name "Anna"....1863

Why is this grave here all alone?
Who is buried beneath this stone?
Was she short? Or was she tall?
Was she large? Or was she small?

What was the color of Anna's hair?
Was it dark? Or was it fair?
Was she young? Or was she old?
I wonder if her life's story was told.

Was she a mother? Or a maiden fair?
Does she have anyone left that cares?
Does anyone know where Anna lyes?
Does anyone visit with saddened eyes?

Nothing now is really known.
About this soul beneath the stone.
So I picked a flower on that nice spring day.
Laid it on her grave and walked away.